


Two Days of Grace

by Vera (Vera_DragonMuse)



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-11
Updated: 2012-04-11
Packaged: 2017-11-03 11:49:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,077
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/381049
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vera_DragonMuse/pseuds/Vera
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A weekend in Paris, a chance meeting and the memory that remains through the years.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Two Days of Grace

**Author's Note:**

> This one has been sitting on my computer for a long time, thanks to some Season 2 jossing. It took me a while to find a new ending I liked for it. Hope you enjoy!

“We have such numerous interests in our lives that it is not uncommon, on a single occasion, for the foundations of a happiness that does not yet exist to be laid down alongside the intensification of a grief from which we are still suffering.”  
 _― Marcel Proust, Swann's Way_

**August 1, 1982**

Music poured out of the club out into the street enticing Greg inside from where he lingered on the sidewalk. Men came and went from a door screened only by beaded strings laughing and still dancing. He’d found the club with careful questions of likely looking blokes, who were too charmed by his muddled accent to be offended.

There were clubs in London, he knew, places he could go and it wouldn’t be dangerous, not really. Anyone who saw him there would be equally implicated, of course, but it lacked an anonymity he would have much preferred. This was as anonymous as it got. A dark, sultry Paris night on a weekend with his mate, Frank. Frank, who had already abandoned him for a slim woman with dark eyes without so much as a goodbye. Greg could have lingered in the hostel by himself, idling the days away with typical tourist stuff, but he was newly a man or at least, newly twenty and starting on a promising career. He wanted to tear down the town, get blind drunk and have blisteringly hot sex with a gorgeous man. It wasn’t too much to ask, was it? 

Back home, he had a persona to wear, a person to be, but this was another country entirely. Granted, one where he could speak the language with relative fluidity and had visited every summer since he was a child to see his grandparents, but still. It counted for something. The curtains parted and without any further dithering, Greg walked through the curtains into the bright flash of lights and dark corners. The club smelled of sweat and booze, the men dancing on the floor more like a sea. 

Eyes slid over him and he met them readily. He was handsome enough, slim and willing in tight jeans and a dark shirt, already damp with sweat in the close quarters. By the time he reached the bar, he’d already sussed out a few potential mates. Leaning over the crowded bar, he signaled lazily. A bartender detached from half-hearted flirtation. 

“Vodka et canneberge, s’vous plait.” 

“Ah, un Anglais.” The bartender mixed his drink, “Est-il avec vous?”

“Qui?” Greg frowned, glancing over the club looking for this apparent other Englishman.

“L'homme effrayant là-bas.” One long elegant hand waved to the corner where the shadows draped over the vague figure of a man. The bartender snorted, switching to English, “He came in an hour ago,ordered a soft drink then vanished into that corner, standing there looking ominous ever since. Perhaps he was waiting for you?” 

“No, he wasn’t,” Greg took his drink and downed it, watching the shadows, “but I can change that.” 

A shiver went over him as he crossed the ten or so meters between the bar and the shadowy corner. Though he could only make out the bare suggestion of a face, he was sure that the man was tracing his progress. He stopped at handshake distance. 

“Dancing is much more fun with others.” He ventured. 

“I prefer to get the lay of the land.” A dry droll voice rolled over Greg’s skin as the other man took the vital step into the light. “I suppose I was making the bartender nervous.” 

There was nothing handsome about him. He stood ramrod straight, a clear attempt to hide the extra weight he carried with him on his tall frame. A thick crop of coppery hair was cut unfashionably short, only emphasizing a beak of a nose. It was no wonder he’d dodged into a corner surrounded by the young godlings of the club. That he wore perfectly pressed trousers and a crisp button down didn’t help matters. Any clubber worth his salt would have let their eyes slid right over the stuffy English stereotype and moved on to more promising fodder. 

Greg was charmed. 

“I think he was enjoying the enigma.” He smiled and held out his hand, wiggling his fingers, “come on then.” 

“I’d really rather not.” A slight frown creased thin lips. 

“One song and I’ll leave you along to your mysterious corner, I promise.” 

“Well...” 

The hesitation lasted just long enough for Greg to grab the other man’s hand and pull him gently towards the floor. The man’s palm was cool and limber, his fingers flexing in Greg’s grip, not quite struggling to get free, but not acquiescing either. 

“Do you capture all your partners this way?” The man asked, his voice carrying smoothly over the obnoxiously loud beat. 

“Only the best ones!” 

He’d expected the stiff formality to carry over to the floor, but apparently the time spent in the shadows was well spent. The man didn’t bother with anything fancy or even attempt to truly dance on his own, instead he got as close to Greg as possible without touching him and followed his lead. Greg used the grip on his hand to close the gap until they were pressed obscenely close. Under that stiff shirt was a trace of cologne that tickled promisingly at Greg’s nose, something green and a little musky. 

“My name is Greg, by the way.” He offered this knowledge directly into the man’s ear, pleased at the shiver that echoed between them. 

“You can call me Enkidu.” His voice was surprisingly deep this close to Greg’s ear.

“There’s no way that’s your actual name.” Greg laughed, “Enkidu...that sounds familiar somehow. It’s a terrible pseudonym. Too clunky. I hear-by, rename you Red.” 

“Not terribly creative.” 

“No,” Greg smiled slow and promising, “but it’s so much easier to shout at an opportune moment.” 

“You’re assuming there will be an opportune moment.” Red drawled, but his pupils were dilated and his tongue darted out to wet his bottom lip. 

“Only if you have somewhere to go. I’ve only got a bed at a hostel and I don’t fancy alleyways.” Not after one too many close calls, anyway. 

They danced without speaking for a good long while, far longer than the one song Greg had promised. Danced long enough that Red rolled up his shirtsleeves and unbuttoned his collar. When one long pulsing mess of a song finally rang out its last chords, Red caught Greg’s gaze with a slight smile and pleasing blush. 

“I can get us a room not far from here.” 

The noise and tumult of the club left them almost immediately as they walked out onto the street. Greg had expected the departure to quench the low burn he’d had going for well over an hour, but instead the air only grew more charged. Even as they walked sedately down the street, a decorous few feet between them, he felt hyper aware of Red’s even steps, the sway of his arms and the faint odor of sweat and cologne. Every time he glanced up, he found Red regarding him with the same warm look. They exchanged smiles then turned away only to catch each other again only seconds later. 

Red steered them the lobby of a posh hotel, where Greg attempted discretion by remaining at the door while Red spoke in low tones to the night clerk. Greg never caught money changing hands and before he knew it, he was following Red into an elevator hung with red velvet drapes. 

“Feel like I should wipe my shoes.” He muttered. He didn’t say that he wasn’t for sale or that he could help pay for the night’s stay. Maybe with another man he might have, but there was something about Red that answered both those statements without being asked. 

“It only just rained, there’s very little mud on the streets.” Red said idly. “In any case, seventeen people have already been in this elevator today with shoes in far worse condition. Just look at the wear pattern in the carpet.” 

Greg looked out of habit. His mentors were forever harping on the importance of observation and he’d rather grown into it. 

“You’re a bit of an odd duck, aren’t you?” He said, reaching to give Red’s hand a squeeze, dropping it before the elevator doors opened. “You’re not with the police are you?” 

“No. Government work. Not everyone who pays attention is in your own line of work.” 

Greg froze one foot in the hallway one still in the elevator. 

“How would you know that?” 

“You’re wary like a soldier, but you don’t have any markings of having been in the army. When you entered the hotel and the club, you searched the area, looking for escape routes and potential dangers. There are dozens of other things, but those were my largest clue.” 

“Bloody hell, maybe you should be with the Met.” He laughed uneasily. “You wouldn’t-” 

“I’d hardly compromise you in your work when I’m trusting you to do the same. London isn’t that large a city, one day you may see me again and name or not, you’ll know me. You have a good memory for faces. Most policeman do.” 

“Trust then.” Greg started walking again, following Red down the hall. “Don’t suppose you’d tell me your real name then?” 

“No.” Red shrugged. “A minor precaution. Ah, here.” 

The door opened soundlessly to a beautifully appointed room dominated by a large bed. Red looked far more comfortable here then he had at the club, his immaculate dress shoes gliding over the thick carpeting. Greg decided not to give himself time to become more uncomfortable. He slid a hand around Red’s waist and drew him close. 

“I’d like to kiss you.” He said, lips nearly touching Red’s. “Do you kiss?” 

Red’s answer was a cautious closing of the space between them, a deliciously soft kiss that Greg followed languidly. A knowing hand curved around Greg’s neck, pulling him closer. Pleased, Greg wrapped a possessive hand around Red’s waist, tugging until the dress shirt was untucked and he rub his thumb over soft revealed skin. 

“You smell like a forest.” He said into Red’s lips. 

“Is that a compliment?” Red drew back enough to tug at Greg’s shirt, pulling it up and over his head. 

“I like it.” He reached forward, sliding finicky buttons loose from their holes, revealing a slightly concave chest and rounded stomach. “I like you.” 

“Do you now?” Red lifted an eyebrow imperiously. “You hardly know me.” 

“I’m a quick judge of character.” He caressed the soft lines of the body before him, before sinking to his knees. “I don’t go to strange hotels with just any bloke you know.” 

“No, alleyways, wasn’t it?” 

“Nah. Well not many of them.” He undid an expensive looking belt-buckle. “Too worried ‘bout getting caught. Guess you’ve had a few, yeah? You kiss like you know what you’re doing.” 

“A few indiscretions here or there,” Red’s breath hitched as Greg leaned into to nuzzle at his still cloth covered cock, “I’m a quick study.”

With care, Greg hooked his thumbs under Red’s waistband and pushed the fabric down until he could catch the edges of his underwear and drag both down without further ceremony. A wearily half-hard cock greeted him. Unable to resist, he pressed his nose into a thicket of ginger and black pubic hair. Sweat and musk greeted him, but there was also the faint trace of that lush green scent. 

“What are you doing?” 

“Getting the lay of the land.” Greg grinned up at him. “Before diving in, you know.” 

Then he sucked the head of Red’s cock between his lips. He tasted like all of the other men that Greg had had the opportunity to do this with like skin and a little sweat. He bobbed his head experimentally and heard as soft, involuntary noise over his head. One of Red’s splendid long fingered hands found its way into Greg’s hair, just resting not directing, but clearly encouraging. 

Who was he to refuse such a polite request? 

He worked up and down the length, tongue flickering. One of his hands wrapped around the back of Red’s thigh and the other on his waist, holding him still and close as he worked. When he glanced up, Red was looking right back at him, not closing his eyes for a moment. Greg couldn’t shake the feeling that he was being memorized. He was nearly silent too, except for a few stray noises that were almost pained. 

“I’m going to....” Red trailed off, his breathing a sudden mess of pants. Greg didn’t pull off though he usually did. The taste of semen always left him wanting to gag. This time was no exception, but what had he been expecting? 

“All right then?” He leaned back on his heels. The other man was utterly undone, his shirt and pants hanging open, pale skin flushed and his chest heaving a little with effort. 

“Get on the bed.” Dark eyes raked over Greg and he scrambled to obey, ditching his sneakers, jeans and underwear along the way. 

“You’re quite handsome.” Red said off-handedly as he neatly shed his remaining clothing. “If you’d lingered, you could have found several welcome beds.” 

“I didn’t want to linger. I saw what I wanted.” 

Red climbed onto the bed, arching over Greg momentarily blocking out the light, before dipping down to kiss him again. His body was warm and soft against Greg, lighting a fire across every one of his nerves. 

“Then I should see to it that you get what you expected.” Red growled in Greg’s ear. 

“Oh, fuck, yes please.” 

Teeth sank into his earlobe and Greg groaned with unexpected pleasure, arching up into Red’s body. The clever lips made their way down the side of his neck, his shoulder and chest, littering stingily sharp kisses along the way. He writhed and made all manner of embarrassing noises, too far gone by the time Red actually touched his cock to care what he sounded like. The first touch of warm lips around the head was divine, the slow sinking swallow that followed miraculous. He sank his fingers into fiery hair, destroying the order he found there. 

“That feels...” He started then stopped, unable to find the right words. 

When his ball began to tighten, signaling the end of it, he swallowed down bitter regret before tugging gently on the hair caught between his fingers. Red pulled away, beautiful fingers wrapping around Greg’s cock and just squeezing lightly. It was enough. Greg came like a shot, a stiff stuttering groan pulled from somewhere deep in his gut. 

When the last wave of pleasure receded, he looked down. Red’s intense expression had wavered, showing some of his initial wariness from the club. Reaching down, Greg wrapped his hands around his biceps and pulled him back up, pleased that he came without a fight. 

“Not going to freak out on you.” He assured him between one kiss and the next. “That was brilliant.” 

“You’re easy to please.” Red corrected, running a hand down Greg’s ribs. 

A giant yawn took Greg off guard and he turned it into a laugh. He should probably leave, but the bed was quite comfortable and the company good. Maybe Red would want to leave immediately. Vacate the scene of the crime. Still, this wasn’t the kind of place that rented by the hour. Maybe Red would take pity and let him stay out the night after he left. 

“Sorry, I’m one of those blokes that tends to drop off after.” He admitted. 

“Stay then.” Red rose, the mattress dipping. Greg watched him with half-mast eyes as he traveled to the bathroom and came back with a washcloth. He ran it over Greg’s stomach and chest, before turning it on himself. “You look like a satisfied cat.” 

“Feel like one too.” Greg smiled lazily, “You should stay too. Could go again in the morning.” 

“Should I?” Red returned the smile, something a little dangerous at the corners of it, but he didn’t reach for his clothes. 

“Please.” Greg crawled under the blanket.. “I’d like it if you stayed.” 

“Ah.” Red watched him cautiously for a few more moments, before getting in next to him. “I find I would like to stay.” 

“Good.” Greg threw an arm over him and settled his face into the soft skin of his shoulder. “If I snore, just roll me over.” 

“I shall roll you out of the bed.” Red declared, his arm wrapping around Greg’s shoulders. 

“Liar.” Greg said around another thick yawn, before falling deeply asleep. 

Dawn pricked at Greg’s eyes until he reluctantly admitted the inevitable. Slowly, he opened his eyes, surveying the lay of the land. Red slept neatly, curled up catlike around his pillow, covers drawn up to his shoulders. Greg rose quietly, padding to the bathroom to relieve himself. When he glanced in the mirror, a calm, smiling stranger smiled back at him. He should be panicking, making plans to leave, but instead he smiled like an idiot and headed back into the bedroom. 

Red was awake, sitting up in bed, propped up a pillow. Greg glanced at his jeans lying discarded on the floor, then at the bed. The bed won. He climbed back in. 

“You know I came here on vacation with my mate.” He said, leaning forward to steal a kiss, not sure if he was welcome, but fuck it, he wanted to take what he wanted for once, “but he buggered off and left me on my own for the whole of the weekend. I don’t have to be anywhere until Monday.” 

“Monday.” Red repeated, the left side of his mouth lifting slowly as he reached for the motel phone. “Isn’t that a strange coincidence? I was meant to be meeting with some people this weekend, but I find myself suddenly under the weather.” 

“Should have someone to look after you then.” 

“Why don’t you draw me a bath, if you want to play the helper while I make a call?” 

Greg made sure to stay in the bathroom as the water run, letting the pounding rush of it drown out Red’s calls. 

An entire weekend. He was nearly sick with the decadent pleasure of it. He pictured a weekend spent fucking himself dry, but in fact, they didn’t last out the morning until they were both restless and went for a walk, stopping to take an early lunch at a pleasant looking cafe. 

“Do you think it’ll always be like this?” Greg asked idly as he bit hungrily into a piece of chicken. 

“Like what?” Red wasn’t turned to face him, rather he’d tilted his chair out so he could survey the crowd. 

“The hiding. The subterfuge. Do you think one day we can be honest about who we are and not risk endless harassment for it?” 

“The smiles of love adorn/ Man's inhumanity to man /Makes countless thousands mourn!” Red quoted as he lifted a cup of steaming espresso to his lips. “I think that one day we might be, but it will be too late for us. We’ve internalized the culture as it is now. If it takes twenty years for acceptance, we will be different men by then, fixed in our ways.” 

“I hope you’re wrong. But honestly, it’s a more optimistic answer then I’d give to the same question.” 

“Things do change. Slowly and with difficulty, but they do change.” Red paused, “Did no one ever teach you proper table manners?” 

“Oh, my poor mother did try.” Greg laughed as he finished licking his fingers clean. “But I’m a bit of heathen underneath it all.” 

“I should write her a condolence note.” He scanned the crowd again then suddenly stiffened, “I think perhaps we should both return to our proper lodgings to fetch our bags. There’s no point in living with only one suit of clothing. Shall we meet back at the hotel in an hour?” 

“Sounds reasonable, I’ll linger in the lobby looking disreputable if you don’t come back on time.” Greg tried to find what he’d spotted that had caused the change in conversation, but whatever it was, he couldn’t make it out, “You all right?” 

“Yes, I’m fine. One o’clock then.”

Red uncrossed his long legs and stood, stopping only to count bills out onto the table and to touch Greg’s hand lightly before disappearing into the passing crowd. It was remarkable how seamlessly a six foot tall Englishman with copper hair could vanish into a crowd of chatting French women. 

The trip to and from the hostel was uneventful. He was happy to see the back of the place, resolving that if this was Red’s way of ditching him, he would just head home early rather than return there. He arrived at five after one and Red was waiting in the lobby, a French newspaper spread out in front of him. 

“I didn’t actually mean it. About looking disreputable.” Greg peered over his shoulder. Red didn’t turn around, but a slow smile creased his face. “You didn’t think I’d just leave without a word, did you? It was your idea to split up.” 

“I didn’t think so, no, but doubts are so rarely rational.” The paper folded back up in a few crisp motions. “I was offering the opportunity.” 

“And I,” Greg lowered his voice until only the two of them might hear it, “am offering the opportunity for you to fuck me.” 

He watched Red live up to his nickname, flushing from neck to forehead. They were back up to the room in a matter of minutes, their travel bags shoved unceremoniously in the corner and their clothes piled on the floor. 

It wasn’t until Red was knuckle deep, playing Greg like an obscene instrument that the thought struck him like lightning. 

_I could love him._

“Oh fuck, yes...” He groaned out loud, spreading his legs wider, canting up his hips. 

“Can I?” Red asked for the first time tentative since they had begun. 

“Now.” Greg growled, hooking his waist with one leg, dragging him forward. 

The slow, painful burn of the penetration drove the thought from his mind as he concentrated on not pushing Red off of him. He breathed through it, drawing him closer. 

“You might have mentioned that you’d never done this before.” Red accused, even as he ran a soothing hand down his chest. 

“Have done. Once.” He shifted, wincing. “Thought I’d like it better this go around.” 

“I would have-” 

“Doesn’t matter.” Greg interrupted, finding his smile once more, “Over and done with now. Why not try and prove me something different, yeah?” 

“Is it always tests with you?” Red tsked, but he did start to move, slow and deliberate. It still hurt, but there was something promising underneath it all. 

“Not tests. Just goal-oriented.” He laughed at Red’s frowning expression and somehow the laughter helped. It loosened something critical and on the next slight movement, pleasure sparked. “Oh, yes...like that.” 

“Are most of your goals based around sex?” Red asked as he canted his hips and repeated the movement. 

“Only for the last twenty-four hours or so.” He admitted thickly, grasping now and finally finding Red’s arms. He clung to them as they rocked together. 

“Ah.” Red leaned down and kissed him at an improbable and rather uncomfortable angle. “I see.” 

Then it started in earnest and Greg could only hold on and prey to heathen gods as Red systematically took him apart. 

“Touch yourself.” Red suggested, low and hoarse. 

Greg obeyed, hand wrapping around his cock and stroking hard. But it wasn’t the pounding his ass was taking or his own familiar touch that made him come. It was Red’s eyes, following his every move, dark with intensity. The stare raked over Greg’s sensitised skin and he came, helpless and trembling. It took another few minutes for Red to come and Greg lay under him, open and wanton. It should have been horrid, lying still and taking it, but he was fascinated by the naked expression on Red’s face, the clenching of his fingers and finally the soft sob that heralded his orgasm. 

“You’re staring.” Red said eventually as he gathered himself up enough to pull out. 

“Only returning the favor.” 

“Bathe with me? Or are you too tired?” Red teased. 

“I can shower.” 

They slipped together into the hot soapy water, laughing as their limbs refused to organize properly until finally, Greg was propped up against Red’s chest. 

“This isn’t normal you know.” He said conversationally as he reached for the soap, then picking up Red’s hands. “We’re supposed to have gone our separate shameful ways. Glad we didn’t though.” 

“As am I.” 

He could feel that intense gaze on the back of his neck. 

“What do you want to be when you grow up?” He asked, moving the soap bar up a finely turned wrist. 

“Nothing.” Red sighed, sitting up to press a kiss to the back of Greg’s neck. “I want to disappear. Influence things from afar.” 

“Very man of mystery.” The kiss shivered through him. “Is it doable?” 

“I think so. What about you?” 

“Doing it already. I’ll stay on the force. I’m good at it, you know.” 

“I wouldn’t have assumed anything else.” 

“Flattery. S’nice to hear once and awhile.” 

They washed in relative quiet after that, stepping out of the tub onto a generous bath mat, patting each other dry with thick towels. Greg ignored the ache he was already beginning to feel, too relaxed to care about tomorrow’s pains. 

“You should sleep.” Red said softly. 

“What about you?” 

“I’ll read a bit first. Will the light bother you?” 

“No, go ahead.” 

They crawled into bed together and for a moment, it was strange. Greg wasn’t sure how he felt about the domestic moment. Red sitting up, book propped in his lap looked like any young successful man after a long day at the office. Sleep eluding him, Greg nudged him slightly. 

“What are you reading?” 

“Proust. I’ve never really understood him, but I keep up the endeavor.” 

“Why bother reading something for fun if it isn’t fun?” 

“I don’t read it for fun. I read it to understand.” Red’s forehead furrowed. “To master it.” 

“It’s literature. I’m pretty sure you can’t rule over it. Either it works for you or it doesn’t.” 

“Not master in that sense.” He sighed. “It is something to discuss in the correct circles.” 

“Huh. I think my ‘correct circles’ probably haven’t even read a pamphlet since they left school.” Greg grinned, “Let’s have it then. Read me some.” 

“Read you...why?” 

“Why not? You’ve got a nice voice and I can’t sleep. Read me some of your Proust then. One of the difficult bits.” 

“All right,” Red frowned and began, eyes scanning over a few pages before he found something, “For what we believe to be our love, or our jealousy, is not one single passion, continuous and indivisible. They are composed of an infinity of successive lives, of different jealousies, which are ephemeral but by their uninterrupted multitude give the impression of continuity, the illusion of unity.” 

“Huh.” Greg wrinkled his nose. “One more time.” 

“You see?” Red sighed, but read the passage again. 

“I think...well. It’s about how simple things are actually really complicated, right?” He ran a finger down Red’s arm, following a blue vein’s forked path. “Everything is made up a thousand little things, but there’s so many that it all blends into one.” 

“Do you think he’s right?” And since Red wasn’t mocking him, but seemed to ask sincerely, Greg gave the question real thought. 

“I don’t think he’s wrong.” He shifted so he could rest his head on Red’s shoulder. “But its a hard way to live to look at it like that. We need patterns and consistency in our lives. Long threads that make a story. If we’re always looking at a mess of moments, then nothing will ever make sense and we’d go mad. What about you?” 

“I think that the little things are the most important. If you ignore the strings that make up a rope, you’ll not notice when it becomes too frayed and it snaps.” He could feel the rumble of Red’s words through his chest. “Some must concern themselves with the small things to keep the larger ones from failing.” 

“All right then.” Greg grinned, “I’ll take care of the big, obvious things and you do the little details, deal?” 

“Deal.” Red lifted an eyebrow. “I thought you would fall asleep.” 

“Guess not. Kind of hungry, actually.” 

They wound up ordering room service, sharing bits of fruit and cheese with each other until one too many finger licks pushed Red to far and they were wrapped tightly together on the bed once more. This time with Greg’s hand wrapped around them both, their foreheads pressed together, sharing a small pocket of humid air. They fell asleep still entwined. 

Sunday morning found them ensconced in the same cafe. Greg was starting to feel nostalgic about the place and made sure to take a packet of matches from the countertop, before they left. 

“Have you ever seen the Musee Rodin?” Red asked, discreetly brushing a fingertip over Greg’s wrist. 

“No, can’t say I have.” 

“Come with me then.” 

The heat of Friday night returned as they strolled sedately over the grounds of the sculpture garden. To any passerby they were two young men, talking animatedly about the great works of the artist. Between themselves the difference charged the air every time their eyes met. Greg started to walk faster, speeding their return back to the hotel even as Red slowed, taking time to enjoy each sculpture like a succulent fruit. 

“Look at the lines,” He said, in near raptures as they came towards the exit, “The elegance.” 

“I’m looking.” Greg said frankly, his eyes on the fine tailoring of Red’s jacket. 

“At the art?” 

“Yes.” He smiled sly and charming, “I want to admire it more closely.” 

They didn’t run to the hotel, but it was a near thing. This time there was nothing slow or gentle, only a ravenous hunger that could only be slated with hands and mouths. Greg bit and clawed, aching and wanting until Red pinned him down and took. When they parted, neither could quite catch their breath, clinging to each other like victims of a shipwreck in angry waters. 

“I cannot...” Red spoke into Greg’s hair, the words muffled and lost, “...this will break me.” 

“What will?” Greg demanded, but Red never answered, only kissed him until he forgot the question. 

They ate in again, more somberly then the night before. The prospect of the morning was slowly dawning over them both and left the food tasteless. Greg wanted to say that he wished to see Red again. Wanted to say that this had been the best weekend he had ever spent. Wanted to say a million impossible things. 

“Kiss me.” He demanded, instead and they whiled away a pleasant hour. 

“When do you have to get up in the morning?” Red asked, no trace of concern in his voice. Greg wondered if he had read him wrong, maybe misread it all. 

“Eight or so. I have a return ferry ticket and Frank will probably meet me there.” He shrugged. “What about you?” 

“I catch a train to Berlin at seven.” Red reached for the alarm clock, setting it. “I’ll wake you when I go.” 

Somehow, Greg already knew that was a lie. Still, he was deeply disappointed to wake up to an empty bed, the alarm clock blaring loudly. Then he saw the time and started to swear, throwing his clothing back into his travel bag and practically running through the hotel. He barely made the ferry and then to add insult to injury, wasn’t allowed to sleep as Frank yammered on endlessly about the amazing sex he had with the woman he’d met and how he planned to use his newfound powers of pulling whenever possible. 

“Oh, hey. What about you, mate?” He finally asked, glancing over at Greg. “What’d you do? You didn’t mind did you? You know how it is.” 

“Yeah.” Greg repeated faintly. “I know how it is.” 

When he finally got back to his depressingly small apartment, he passed out on the bed without bother to undress. He woke up hours later, rumpled and still annoyed. Eventually though, the laundry would have to be dealt with and why not now when he was already in a shit mood? 

He put the travel bag on the bed and started lobbying clothes into his dark and whites bins. At the very bottom, his hand encountered something unexpectedly hard and he drew it out slowly. The book had clearly been read many times, it’s leather spine wrinkled and cracked. _Swann’s Way_ , it read, _by Marcel Proust_

Throat tight, he opened the front cover to find a spidery inscription written in hasty pen across it: 

_I think you will receive far more enjoyment out of this than I. May it serve you well in your work on the big picture._

There was no signature. He swallowed thickly and closed the book with a tight snap. The few other books he owned were scattered in a corner or long since kicked under his bed. For a moment, he considered tossing the volume to its fate among them, but instantly wavered. Instead, he set it gently on his bedside table. It’d be a nice reminder for a while, he figured, like a souvenir. 

Maybe he’d even read it one of these days. 

**July 15, 2015**

The door opened into his familiar, tidy foyer. The bachelor flat with its fine patina of dust and empty fridge was not meant for Greg. He couldn’t get out of the habit of keeping somewhere clean and ready for family, for friends, for a spouse. The divorce had come and gone, buried in the paperwork of Sherlock’s last days. Well, the first set of last days. Trust him to have nine lives. John’s marriage was probably already under siege from Sherlock’s relentless demands and it had only been three weeks since the bastard’s triumphant return. 

Greg set down the post in the basket he kept by the door, then hung his keys on their proper hook. He nearly didn’t notice the umbrella, tightly furled and black as ink, resting next to the door as if it belonged there. With a questioning finger, he touched the glossy handle. He took a few careful steps towards the living room, shoulders tense. 

Mycroft Holmes sat on his armchair, all neat lines and alert bright eyes. He looked out of place among the cheap furniture though he showed no outward signs of unease. Then again, he never did. Greg dropped onto the sofa with an annoyed huff. 

“So you’re alive then.” 

“I wasn’t aware that was in question.” Mycroft’s voice has changed, gone soft and tired. It’s a little frightening, actually. 

“You never write, you never call.” Greg shrugged. “Did you blame me?” 

“Not nearly as much as I blamed myself.” 

“Did you know he was alive?” 

“Only near the end.” Mycroft smiled thinly. “When he needed help.” 

“You could have called me. I’m good with grief.” 

“I’m not. I couldn’t.” 

“Why are you here now then?” Greg asked instead of tearing deeper into the vulnerable, bleeding parts of that statement. 

“It seemed a good time to discuss the past.” 

The words settle in slowly. 

“Why now?” 

Greg’s hands don’t quite shake. He remembered the first time he put the face to the name Mycroft, how he’d longed to say something, anything. But their eyes had met over Sherlock’s unconscious curly head and the agreement had begun. They had never met, never shared a long, romantic weekend in Paris. They were strangers, bound together in the protection of one singular mind. Until now, apparently.

“I never forgot.” Mycroft said slowly. “Only that I thought the memory was worth more as it was.” 

“Remembrance of things past is not necessarily the remembrance of things as they were.” Greg quoted from the old and much read volume that still lingered on his bedside table. “I thought it was shame. Or respect for my marriage.” 

“I held the same respect for your marriage that I gave my own.” 

“So none then.” He never met Mrs. Holmes, saw her once on the television standing like a matching bookend to Mycroft’s stiff posture. Then she was gone, a footnote in a minor politician’s life, the ring on Mycroft’s hand the only lasting reminder. “It’s ridiculous, but I think I’ve missed you, all this time. Or what might have been.” 

“It was one weekend.” 

“But it was a fantastic one.” Greg smiled ruefully. “You were right, after all. About things getting better. I used to think you were mad for even thinking it.” 

“People progress. It will never be perfect.” 

“You were wrong about one thing though.” 

“I have lately discovered, with great pains, that I am wrong about many things.” 

Greg had to digest that one for a long minute. 

“Who are you and what have you done to Mycroft Holmes?” 

“There’s no need for sarcasm.” Mycroft closed his eyes as if against some blinding light. “What was I wrong about?” 

“That we would be too ingrained in the old way to change.” Greg crossed the space between them. “I’ve got too many years ahead of me to remain unhappy. What about you?” 

“I don’t invest in people.” Mycroft kept his eyes closed. “And I’m not who you remember me to be.”

“You don’t know what I remember. Unless you’ve hired a psychic in the last three years.” Greg sat on the arm of the chair, his right knee making a keen protest at the odd angle. “Anyway, it doesn’t matter. I know very well who you are now. And who I am.” 

“I don’t know how to make room for someone else.” 

Greg laid his hand over Mycroft’s, studying the long tapered fingers. The soft white half moons of his nails weren’t perfectly tended as Greg expected. They weren’t as messy as Greg’s own, but there was a certain unkemptness to them as if Mycroft had stopped his eternal careful fussing. Greg had to wonder what other normally well-tended patches had gone to seed. 

They sat together in the encroaching twilight, their fingers slowly tangling together until their palms kissed. It was intimate in a way that Greg no longer expected, had imagined would die along with his marriage. Warm and knowing, thoughtful and melancholy. 

“I can get together a bit of dinner.” He said quietly when it got just dark enough that he can’t easily see the nuances of Mycroft’s expression. “Nothing fancy.” 

“No. I should be on my way.” But Mycroft made no move to rise. 

“Why did you come today?” Greg prodded because he couldn’t force him to stay. “I’ve worked for you all these years without talking about it. We could’ve gone on like that forever.” 

“The status quo no longer suits me.” Mycroft stared at their joined fingers. “I have spent the past three years thinking about sin and atonement. Neither are concepts I’ve had much time for in the past. I think I believe in both now. Not in any biblical sense, but in the very real ways we injure the people we love. And if I believe in those things, then I must also believe in forgiveness and grace.” 

“So, what? You want me to forgive you?” Greg raised an eyebrow. “I’m hardly in the position for it.” 

“Nor would I want it from you. I only wanted to acknowledge that if ever I felt grace, it was in that one weekend. With you.” Mycroft smiled thinly. “Sentiment as Sherlock would say.” 

“Grace.” He repeated, rolling the word over his mind. “It’s not what I would have said, but yeah. I can see it.” 

“What would you have said?” 

“That it was fun. That it made me brilliantly happy.” Greg stroked Mycroft's thumb with his own. “We never had a chance to fight or get on each other’s nerves. Probably the best relationship I ever had.” 

“It’s a memory.” Mycroft disentangled his hand from Greg’s and finally rose from the chair. “And now, I really must go.” 

“The thing is,” Greg said quietly, almost to himself, “that memory doesn’t do anyone any good in the middle of the night. When you’re alone with your thoughts.” 

“No, it doesn’t.” Mycroft huffed an exasperated breath. “What do you want from me?”

“Nothing more you can’t afford to give.” 

The dim memory of a young man’s cockiness returned to Greg’s older, wiser body. He got to his feet and reached for Mycroft, wrapping a hand around his neck. The skin was warm and inviting under his fingers as he pulled. There was resistance, but not enough for Greg to take seriously. For the first time in thirty years, he kissed Mycroft Holmes. It wasn’t heated, sweat soaked or giddy. It was slow, a bit dry and knowing. He kept at it until Mycroft softened a little against him, one long fingered hand settling on Greg’s waist. When they parted, Greg let out a soft laugh. 

“You’re still good at that.” He kept his hand on Mycroft’s neck, an imitation of capture. “Stay. For tonight. For the weekend.” 

“I can’t.” Mycroft sighed, breath teasing over Greg’s lips. 

“Liar.” Greg kissed him again lightly. “You won’t. There’s a difference. You should though. A vacation from reality. Two days of grace.” 

“And afterwards?” 

“You can leave. We can go back to playing strangers or try to be mates or something new.” 

“How can you sound so confident about it?” 

“Because I’m so utterly scared that I’ve come out the other way.” Shrugging, Greg pulled back a little further. “I don’t know how to fit someone into my life any more than you do. Could be a recipe for disaster. But I want to know, instead of guessing.” 

“Just the weekend.” 

Greg smiled slow and broad. After a heartbeat of silence, Mycroft’s lips twitched upwards into a matching grin. There was no way of telling what was coming, but there were two days of grace before they had to sort it all out. Greg led Mycroft to his bedroom and closed the door behind them.


End file.
